


Stylemagic

by Woldy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Fashion & Couture, POV Female Character, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:02:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woldy/pseuds/Woldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who would have thought that Charing Cross Road was style central?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stylemagic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://kiki-eng.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kiki_eng**](http://kiki-eng.dreamwidth.org/) as part of [](http://femslash12.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**femslash12**](http://femslash12.dreamwidth.org/). A thousand thanks to the wonderful [](http://liseuse.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**liseuse**](http://liseuse.dreamwidth.org/) and [](http://magnetic-pole.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://magnetic-pole.dreamwidth.org/)**magnetic_pole** for betaing; all remaining mistakes are my own. I admit this is a little on the cracky side, but both these ladies are characterised through very distinct visual aesthetics and somehow this idea stuck in my brain. I hope you like it!

It's not easy being a street style blogger. People think we just wander the city for a few minutes, finding a great outfit on every corner, and then head back to our loft apartments. In reality, street photography involves hours of walking around in the cold surrounded by people in jeans or ugly polyester suits, before returning to my basement flat. When the rain is trickling down my neck and my fingers have turned to ice, it could hardly be less glamorous.

 _The Sartorialist_ makes it look effortless, but his pictures are staged - he doesn't _happen_ to run into models on their afternoons off, or coincidentally walk past as all the magazine editors arrive for a runway show. It's not chance when _The Style Scout_ arrives at the opening of a feted popup shop or encounters a contestant from _Britain's Next Top Model_. The truth is that cities aren't chic or elegant - they're full of frumpy people, just like the suburbs.

The secret to successful street style isn't where you live, it's who you know, and since I don't know anyone I'm basically fucked. If I'm ever going to get my ad revenue to cover my rent then I need insider access to the fashion establishment, or a muse. There's no chance of the first, and the only way to find the second is by pounding the pavement. In the rain. Again.

Ironically, most days style photographers don't look stylish ourselves at all. The uniform is jeans (boyfriend, in my case), flat shoes (velvet loafers) a jumper (green, waffleknit) and a warm coat (black wool); practical, understated clothes that blend into the crowd. I wouldn't take a picture of me like this.

Right, Oystercard, camera, fingerless gloves, business cards. I'm ready to go.

* * * * * * *

The vintage shoppers on Portobello Road were thin on the ground today, so I've walked all over Soho, and I still don't have a decent picture. I'm cold, I'm wet, I'm tired, and my feet hurt. Not a single shot I've taken today is blog-worthy, and I'm getting desperate.

I scan the crowd of tourists and shoppers one last time, hoping to find someone, _anyone_ , but it's no good. This afternoon has been a dead loss.

Defeated, I head along Charing Cross Road towards Leicester Square tube. As I pass a bookshop there's a flash of something reflected in the window, just an impression of colour and fabric, and I whirl on the spot.

It's a young blonde woman wearing the best outfit I've spotted this year: a floor-length blue cloak that combines the cape craze with the fall azure trend. Her hair is pulled up in the kind of messy bun that takes me an hour to achieve, and there are radish-like objects dangling from her ears - a _clear_ reference to Miuccia Prada's banana earrings! It's so fresh and original, and before I have time to think about it, I'm running towards her.

"Excuse me! You! In the cape!"

The woman keeps on walking, but her blonde hair and fluttering cape make her easy to find in the crowd.

Camera bouncing around my neck, I jostle my way through the shoppers and come to a breathless halt by her side.

"Excuse me," I say, gasping for breath. "I'd like to take your picture."

The woman turns towards me, radish earrings swinging to and fro.

"Why?"

"I have a street style blog," I say, and she blinks at me vaguely. "Stylemagic. I've got a card somewhere..."

With clumsy fingers, I rummage in my pocket for a card and hand it to her.

She stares down at it with a dreamy expression, then looks up at me and smiles.

"You can take my picture."

"Fantastic," I say, smiling back at her. "Stand right there."

I back up a few steps, lift the camera, and the people passing on the pavement detour around us.

"Bloody tourists," someone mutters.

I focus the SLR, take a bunch of full-length shots, then some close-ups of the earrings, and I know instinctively that they're good. The distant look in this woman's eyes and her bright smile make her naturally photogenic, and it's a killer outfit.

"Thank you," I say, lowering the camera. "I really appreciate it. Your look is so unique."

She looks at me for thoughtfully a moment, says, "It's nice to meet someone who thinks it's good to be different," and then walks away.

I watch the blue fabric swirl away as she disappears into the passing throng.

Finding someone in an outfit like that is almost too good to be true, and I can't seem to stifle my grin. Still heady with victory, I duck into a cafe for a celebratory latte and order a shot of caramel syrup that I absolutely refuse to feel guilty about.

"You must be having a good day," the barista says, giving me an odd look.

"It just got a lot better," I tell him, beaming.

I squeeze into a table outside the cafe and pull off my gloves to wrap my hands around the coffee. The warmth seeps into me, and the first sip tastes like heaven - almost as if it's full fat. Right now, nothing is going to spoil my glow.

My table wobbles, and a woman's voice says, "Fuck, sorry! Did I spill your drink?"

"It's fine," I say instinctively steadying the table and glancing up into the face of a young woman with short, bright-pink hair. Okay, this _must_ be my lucky day.

She's not exactly pretty, but her face is striking, and she's wearing skinny black jeans, heavy black boots, and a military jacket with brass clasps and an insignia on one shoulder. Her look is punk meets military vintage meets hipster, the sort of thing you usually only see in Camden, and the perfect complement to the last picture I took.

"You can make it up to me by letting me take your picture," I say, almost breathless. Please, please, _please_ say yes.

This woman looks me up and down, quirking an eyebrow. "What's it for?"

"I run a street style blog called Stylemagic."

She throws her head back and laughs. "Stylemagic? I suppose I have to say yes, then."

"Thank you so much!"

"Here?" the woman asks, stepping sideways so that people can pass on the pavement.

"Maybe on the corner, where there's more room."

We walk together to the corner of the street, and she stops there, framed by the eighteenth century buildings. It's close to being a perfect shot.

"That looks great," I say, lifting my camera and taking several snaps in quick succession.

The woman isn't smiling in any of them, but there's still plenty of expression - the tilt of her jaw and squared shoulders portray a kind of confidence and independent spirit that's infectious.

"Really, thank you."

"No worries," she says, extending her hand to shake mine. "What was your name?"

"Eleanor."

"Nice to meet you, Eleanor. I'm Tonks."

"That's an unusual name," I say, and then wish I hadn't. Insulting the people you've photographed is never a good idea.

"Yeah," she says, flashing a cocky smile. "Well, I'm an unusual lady. See you around, maybe."

Perhaps I'm imagining it, but there seems to be a swagger in her step as she walks away.

* * * * * * *

My first rule of blogging is not to read the comments before my morning coffee, but today I can't resist scrolling down.

_Love the cape!_

_This is my favourite picture you've taken_

_I wish I knew where she got those earrings_

_That shade of blue looks amazing with her blonde hair._

_Great shot! This is my first time visiting your blog, but now I've got it bookmarked ;-)_

_Loving the whole look! Hope to see more like this._

_You have a great eye! Check out my blog estellastiletto.com sometime._

Leaning back in my chair, I feel a grin spread across my face.

I need more than a two hundred hits a day before I can consider quitting my day job, but this is a start. I've got another great picture lined up for my next post, and more importantly, I've got a new favourite street style location that none of the other bloggers know about. Who would have thought that Charing Cross Road was style central?

First thing after work on Wednesday, I'm going back.

* * * * * * *

I make my excuses to leave work a little after four and rush to Charing Cross Road. Within minutes I see a man in what looks like pajama bottoms and a tuxedo jacket walk past chatting to a woman in a huge witches hat with a stuffed bird on top. Surely, she must be on her way to a fancy dress event?

The sky gets darker, but the oddly-dressed people don't stop coming. Several men and women go by in long capes, which seem far more popular here than anywhere else in town. Then, weirdest of all, a teenage boy walks past carrying a rat in a cage. Seriously, _rats?_ There's edgy, and then there's just disgusting.

I've almost given up the hope of finding someone who's stylish as well as just bizarre, when there's a flash of pink hair amidst the crowd. I uncurl from where I've been slouched against the wall and hurry towards her.

"You again?" She looks amused.

"When I find a good spot I like to go back," I admit.

"Going to take another photo of me?"

Today she's wearing a long red coat with brass buttons over a semi-translucent shirt, striped black trousers, and the same heavy black boots. I wouldn't say it's flattering, but it's a dramatic and original look.

"I'd like to. Is that okay?"

"All right," she says, crossing her arms and lifting her chin.

She stares straight into the camera, and there's something of the soldier in her pose, as though she's ready to spring into action. I take two shots, then a third to focus on her boots.

"Thank you, Tonks," I say, the unfamiliar word feeling clumsy in my mouth.

"Anything for a pretty lady," she replies, winking, and I feel myself blush.

This time the swagger as she walks away is unmistakeable. I run her comment through my mind again, and then the boots, clothes, and body language suddenly make sense: butch lesbian meets steampunk. Steambutch!

I put the lens cover on my camera and walk back to the tube pondering what to call the post.

* * * * * * *

Charing Cross Road becomes my regular hangout. There are a few bookshops and an alleyway where the wacky outfits seem to congregate, and after a while, the people start to look familiar. There's the bloke with scruffy black hair and dorky glasses whose clothes are always too big. There's the jittery old guy in the purple top hat. There's the blonde who wears skintight green satin and scarlet lipstick every day, and is _just begging_ to be featured in a Style Don'ts column.

Most of the weird people are the opposite of elegant, but a few of the outfits really work and they never look like anything on the other style blogs. Over the past month I've got great shots of a tall older woman in tartan that looks as if it could almost be vintage Vivianne Westwood, and a red-haired man in a sleek navy suit that would be very establishment if it weren't for his long hair and what looks like a crocodile-tooth earring. In fashion, originality is everything and I've found a gold mine.

My blog traffic has tripled in the past two weeks, but the hits are still uneven and there's no mistaking the favourites: the blonde and the girl with pink hair. There are five entries tagged Steambutch, now, and each one has been reblogged around Tumblr and Pinterest. I'm hoping that tonight will make it six.

Sod's Law, just when I'm looking for Tonks, the blonde woman appears. She's walking in the opposite direction to normal, so it's hard for me to see her and impossible to get a shot. For a moment she pauses to peer into a bookshop, before turning into a narrow alleyway beside a music shop.

I jump into action, elbowing my way through the commuters to follow her. The entrance to the alley is oddly dark and it feels almost... Well, it's as if it doesn't want me to be there. Which makes no sense at all, so I push the thought aside and take another step into the alleyway through oddly resistant air.

The blonde woman is gazing vaguely into the window of a pub that I've never noticed before: The Leaky Cauldron. That's...okay, that's weird. Is it a steampunk thing?

Before I have a chance to ask her, the door to the pub swings open and the pink-haired woman steps out. The blonde smiles widely at the sight of her, stepping closer, and I raise my camera because if a photo of one of these ladies brings in five hundred hits, then a photo of them both should be _dynamite_.

The pink-haired woman reaches out, cupping her hand around the blonde's neck, and pulls her in for a kiss. It's a disaster: the blonde woman's red cloak clashes with the pink hair and the way it's hanging obscures the line of Tonks' military-style trousers. I'm not going to get a good shot of this. I really should lower my camera.

I don't lower the camera.

The blonde wraps her arms around Tonks' waist, and Tonks presses her back against the wall of the alley. Visually, it's striking: pale hair and scarlet fabric against the clay brick, the thin beam of sunlight catching the brass buckles of Tonks' coat as she leans in. I adjust the lens, focusing, and catch the flush on Tonks' cheek. God are they really going to do this here? Am I going to keep watching even though-

Someone jostles my back and I nearly fall face-first onto the pavement. By the time I've steadied myself and turned back towards them the only thing in sight is the trailing edge of the blonde's cloak as she steps through the door of the pub.

* * * * * * *

I've been here every night this week, and I'll wait until dusk if I have to. The title is ready in my head: 'Steambutch and hippy-chic.' It's just waiting for the shot.

The tall woman in tartan walks past in a jacket with a nipped-in waist, but I ignore her. There's only one picture I'm after today. Well, maybe five or six pictures, but I know who I'm looking for and nobody else will do. It makes sense in a weird way that my two muses are connected.

I've thought about it a lot since seeing them together in the alley, and those two complement each other. I don't know much about lesbians, but the visual aesthetic is a retro butch-femme: cropped pink hair, tailored trousers, and military detailing contrasting with blonde waves, long skirts, and the soft line of a cape. I have to get a shot of them together. _I have to._

When Tonks finally appears, I almost pounce on her.

"Tonks!"

She turns, eyes scanning the crowd, and frowns a little when she sees me.

"Oh, it's you. You must have enough pictures of me for a lifetime."

"On your own today?" I ask, failing to keep the eagerness out of my voice.

"Who'd you expect me to be with?" Her tone is challenging, chin tilted up.

"Um, well." This is awkward. "I saw you with, er, a blonde girl a while back. I thought maybe I could get a picture of you together."

Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. "Luna mentioned you'd been photographing her too."

So the blonde's name is _Luna_. She must get the hippy thing from her parents.

"I think you, um. I think you look good together."

Tonks raises her eyebrow, and I blush.

"I don't mean to invade your privacy, it's just... It's just that my blog has been taking off since I've been posting pictures of you, and I'd really like to build on that readership and the ad revenue-"

"All right, fine." Tonks sounds exasperated. "Come back on Thursday, right? If Luna agrees then you can take a picture of us together. Provided that's the last picture you take of either of us."

"I won't bother you again after that. I promise," I lie, and she nods sharply before striding away.

There's a little flutter in my stomach at the way she swaggers. I spend the entire journey home trying to convince myself that it's the way her squared shoulders show off the line of the jacket.

* * * * * * *

It's not the easiest shoot I've ever done, but it's the most memorable. I don't have words to describe it, really - words have never been my thing - but it's all there in the pictures. Tonks' arm curling possessively around Luna's waist, nestling their bodies together. Luna's head tilted towards Tonks, eyes shining, like a flower facing the sun. The riotous clash of Tonks' pink hair against Luna's eggyolk yellow dress and purple cardigan, which should look like a disaster, but somehow comes across as joyous.

When I post the pictures I'm almost trembling with anticipation, and I sit up that night refreshing the browser to catch the comments.

_Adorable! This must be the quirkiest couple in London._

_Wow, such powerful contrasts! That combination that shouldn't work yet it does._

_There's so much to love in this shot - texture, light, and great expression._

_This is so Scott Schuman!_

_Love the attention to detail from them both - the scuffed shoes, shining buckles, and flower tucked behind her ear._

_I was hoping you'd get a shot of these two together. Can't wait to hear the story behind it._

_Such attitude!_

_Total magic, Eleanor. Your best picture ever!_

* * * * * * *

I still go to Charing Cross Road once a week to take pictures, but I haven't seen Tonks or Luna since that day. The other characters are still there, with their odd hats and cloaks and crazy juxtapositions, but it's as if the ladies simply vanished. I've never understood what happened. Were they uncomfortable about all the attention? Did they see me watching them in the alley?

Still, those final pictures served their purpose: those were the shots that landed me the job at Nylon. Nowadays my blog has taken a backseat to doing photoshoots and covering alternative fashion week, but the readers who came for Steambutch and Flower Girl have stayed around. For a while, those photos spawned a minor following in the East End fashion scene, with a flurry of blog posts about vintage capes and military detailing.

The two rules of street style photography are to take your camera everywhere and keep your eyes open. One day, I'm sure I'll see them again, and if I'm very lucky then I'll get another picture. I know exactly the moment I want to capture: the moment where Tonks leans in for a kiss, eyes soft, her crisply tailored jacket pressing against the loose fabric of Luna's dress. The image is crystal clear in my mind's eye. It'll be a perfect shot.


End file.
